His hands were numb and red, courtesy of the scalding stream that had at first been emitted from the tap. He absentmindedly turned the faucet knob to the left, which shut off the now barely tepid flow, and picked up the threadbare towel from the nearby countertop to dry his hands.
The chair from the small mismatched dining set made a sharp scraping noise on the congoleum floor as he crossed the short distance from the sink and pulled it out from beneath the table. He settled down heavily upon the worn wooden seat and stared transfixed at the slightly wrinkled sheet of paper and the freshly sharpened pencil that sat opposite of him.
Determined to complete his task, he slowly reached across the smooth surface and drew them closer.
In a steady block handwriting, he placed today's date in the upper righthand corner. He rested the pencil's eraser on his lower lip and stared at the nearly blank sheet. What would be the best way to address such a correspondence? With her full name? Only her first name? Maybe a nickname? He rotated the pencil in his hand and placed the tip to his tongue as he thought. Eventually, he concluded to forgo any sort of opening; she would know.
It feels like I have been spending the past year apologizing to you, whether I was in the wrong or not. I sincerely wish that it had been me to go into the games two years ago, so that you and your family would have been spared so much heartache. Things may not be better on the other side, but at least they won't be worse. I regret not being able to convey these sentiments to you in person, but please be assured that I only want the best for you. That's all I've ever wanted.
-GH
He reread the letter, unworthy of being called such because of its lack of amplitude, and carefully folded it in half. He sat with his elbows on the table, the paper held with the thumbs and forefingers of both hands.
With a sigh, he pushed the chair back and stood up.
A creaking noise, like the settling of an old house, called his attention to a spot in the room a dozen feet to his right, where a body was hanged -
He had watched as the man clawed desperately at the rope that tightened around his neck.
He had watched as the man's eyes bulged in their sockets and his face turned a dark ruddy color, followed by a purple tint to his complexion.
He had continued to watch as the man lost the ability to control his appendages and his bodily functions.
Now the only movement was caused by the slight breeze that passed over the sill of the open window; it swiveled the body ever so slightly, which created the creaking noise that had garnered his attention. He approached the body and situated the note on a sidetable nearby, careful not to disturb the suicidal scene he had created a mere hour before. He stood back and placed his hands on his hips, pleased with work that his artists's eye had allowed him to realize.
He crept out through the rear door. If anyone was suspicious of the death, they may be able to take note of footsteps leading away that favored the right leg, but the rain would muddle them soon enough. Tomorrow he would be boarded onto a train back to District Twelve, where nothing would stand in the way as he worked to regain her trust.